Calling all olive branches
|
and laid off doves
|
There is work to do before
|
we say goodbye
|
But who can see them turning
|
to the face of love
|
Though I hear them pleading
|
with me, don't let us die
|
As I sit I can see their
|
troubled souls wander by
|
And I feel them leaning
|
on my shoulder to cry
|
Oh, one more chance
|
Naked tree of winter seems
|
to stand so proud
|
Lording the poor mortal
|
as he goes
|
And the tears which well
|
beneath his somber shroud
|
Will they fall with the shame
|
of somebody who knows
|
He can never be like
|
the thought of a rose
|
Whose beauty remains
|
even when the bloom goes
|
Oh, oh, one more chance
|
Or is it too late to change
|
the ways we're bound to go
|
Is it too late, there's surely
|
one of us must know
|
<Interlude>
|
Is it too late to change
|
the ways we're bound to go
|
Is it too late, there's surely
|
one of us must know
|
<Interlude>
|
Is it too late, there's surely
|
one of us must know
|
Is it too late to change
|
the ways we're bound to go
|
Is it too late, there's surely
|
one of us must know
|
|
-----------------
|
ONE MORE CHANCE
|
| Fairport Convention |
